I'm with Stupid

by Geoff Herbach

“I’m here about Hamlet. I’ve read it a couple of times.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I thought you forgot how to read.”

  “No. I’ve read some parts like five or ten times.”

  “Okay. Sit down.”

  I sat at the desk in front of him. I squinted. I asked, “Is Hamlet talking about suicide in that ‘to be or not to be’ speech?”

  “Sure.”

  “I thought so.”

  Linder cocked his head to the side. He nodded. “There’s a larger context in the story though. Hamlet’s revealing the kind of person he is in that speech. It’s called a soliloquy, by the way.”

  “What kind of person is he?”

  “He’s depressive and dark—his dad is dead.”

  “Yeah, I get that. But…”

  “But his big problem is the human condition, which is everybody’s problem. It’s the mortal coil. Remember that from the speech? The mortal coil?”

  “Yeah. I picture a killer snake.”

  “Good enough. But the mortal coil is a symbol, okay?”

  “Okay,” I nodded.

  “It represents the trouble of being human. Right?”

  I paused. I nodded. “I really don’t know,” I said.

  “What’s the human condition?”

  “Uh…We’re hungry a lot? I mean, I am.”

  “Psychological, not biological, Felton.”

  “We’re weak?”

  “We think a lot,” he said.

  “Oh. Yeah. I do. Too damn much.”

  “But we can’t be sure we know anything. We don’t know if we’re right. We don’t know about the future. We’re born into all these responsibilities and relationships and histories that are so complex.”

  “Oh,” I said. I nodded.

  “We’re tiny, but we have to make decisions about big things.”

  “I know.”

  “Hamlet has a huge responsibility, right? Huge. He’s the son of the king! He believes his father’s been murdered! But he isn’t exactly sure. Is his mind playing tricks on him?”

  “My mind plays tricks on me. I picked up that Wisconsin hat,” I said.

  “No kidding, Felton. What a stir over nothing, huh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Good,” I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “What are Hamlet’s choices? To act on his belief, to harm those he loves? To avenge the death of his dad when he’s unsure and not naturally given to fighting? Or to die, let go, shuffle off the mortal coil? Just dump it all! Break away!”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “But he’s afraid of death too. Afraid of the unknown that death represents. What if he dies and spends an eternity dreaming of his failings?”

  “Shit.”

  “Tortured guy, Prince Hamlet.”

  “Shit, shit,” I mumbled.

  “Shit?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Not everybody has a mortal coil. My brother, Andrew, isn’t like Hamlet. He doesn’t worry about that kind of crap. He’s all action.”

  “Everybody has a mortal coil. Some people are better at handling it.”

  “Right. Andrew.”

  “But…you’re like Hamlet?” Linder asked.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “How so?” Linder leaned forward. He nodded slowly.

  “My dad killed himself.”

  “I know. And you’re some kind of prince, aren’t you? The football hero.”

  “That’s genetics from my dad.”

  “Prince isn’t an elected position. It’s passed from parent to child.”

  “Yeah. Of course. Right.”

  Linder smiled. “So…do you understand something about your own existence from reading about Hamlet’s plight?” he asked.

  “Definitely. I should hurry up and murder my mom and my uncle.”

  The smile dropped from Linder’s face. He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the message.”

  “I don’t actually have an uncle, not a blood uncle. My aunt is married to this guy, David. I’ve never met him. He couldn’t marry my mom because he’s already married…”

  “Stop joking,” Mr. Linder said.

  “Really?”

  “Don’t take the easy way out. You’re in here for a reason, I assume.”

  I stood up. Linder winced. I didn’t really mean to joke. It just happened because shit falls out of my mouth. “I’m not like Hamlet. I do act,” I said. “I do great when I’m on a football field.”

  “That’s easy. There’s a specific goal and there are set rules.”

  “Perfect. I like that.”

  “But Hamlet isn’t playing a game. He’s dealing with real life where there aren’t set rules. He has to make up his own rules and it’s driving him crazy.”

  “He’s crazy?” I asked.

  “Do you think he’s crazy?” Linder asked.

  “If you make up your own rules, then there aren’t any real rules, and if there aren’t any real rules then…then…then it’s chaos! Who wouldn’t be crazy?”

  “That’s the mortal coil right there, my friend,” Linder said, nodding.

  “That sucks,” I said. “Somebody should make some rules.”

  “Make your own. If Hamlet had considered his values instead of messing around, drinking beer at university, maybe he would’ve been decisive when the crisis came. He’d have had his rules. He could’ve avoided the whole mess.”

  I started sliding toward the door. “Why are you talking about beer?”

  “I’m not,” Linder said. “Are you leaving?”

  “I have to go running,” I said.

  “Of course you do,” Linder nodded.

  “Plus, if he had his rules and was decisive, then the story would be too short and it wouldn’t be a tragedy and nobody would care,” I said.

  “Hamlet had to have his problems or Shakespeare wouldn’t have a play. You’re right.”

  “Everybody dies. It’s Hamlet’s fault.”

  “That’s the magic of fiction, Felton. You get to experience the crisis and the causes without actually living through them yourself. What did you learn from Hamlet?”

  “Uh…It’s complicated.”

  “That’s my Facebook relationship status,” Mr. Linder said.

  “Gross,” I said.

  “You can do better than Facebook, can’t you? Think.”

  “I really have to go for a run,” I said. I ran out the door.

  “Nice seeing you!” he shouted behind me.

  WTF? Why are you running? I was running down the hall.

  Mr. Linder emailed me five minutes after I left and told me he’d walk me to the guidance counselor’s office if I needed the help or we could talk more about Hamlet another time. I saw the message when I got home.

  Before that, I ran sprints for an hour.

  After I saw the message, I sat at my desk and thought. You’re not like Hamlet. You do stuff. You decide. You act. You make funny videos that make dipshits happy… Then I was struck: Holy balls. Hamlet made a play.

  Seriously, Hamlet makes a play in Hamlet to see how his mom and uncle would react. That’s like an old school video.

  Holy balls. You’re Hamlet?

  Thankfully, Abby called at that moment to make our evening plan.

  Chapter 44

  Chicken Launchers Head to Walmart

  Abby’s plan for clean living: we couldn’t spend any time in our houses except to sleep. “I need to be some place where there are bright lights and normal people,” she said.

  There aren’t a ton of good places to go in Bluffton. Walmart is huge, and it has a deli section where you can sit and drink pop for hours on end. So we decided to go there for the evening.


  I only wanted to read Hamlet. While I paged through the play, Abby buried herself in a giant textbook. She looked like Jerri nosed into her accounting text.

  “You know why people go crazy?” I asked.

  She shushed me, which I kind of liked, because that’s the way the old Abby would behave. You couldn’t stop her from studying.

  “Because they don’t know what else to do,” I said. “They don’t see a good path.”

  “Felton,” Abby said. “Shut up. Okay?”

  “You got it,” I nodded. “To be or not to be…talking. Not talking.”

  I looked around. Stared at the fluorescent lights and blinked. You’re not like Dad really. That’s what I thought. He wanted to break the mold. Shuffle off that mortal coil. You just want to chill. Hamlet and Dad weren’t alike. Dad’s dad is still alive. Your dad is dead. You’re like Hamlet, not Dad? Everybody dies. You’re going to die. Abby will die. Everybody in this store will die and rot in the ground, and won’t they be happy they don’t have to shop at Walmart under these giant lights that pretty much burn out your soul…My heart was starting to accelerate. Oh God. What’s wrong with you?

  I stood up. I said, “I’m going to take a quick run around the store.”

  “What?” Abby asked, her eyebrows scrunched with concern.

  Then Andrew called. I grabbed my phone from my pocket. “My brother,” I said to Abby.

  “Talk to him. Don’t talk to me,” Abby said.

  I answered. “Hi.”

  “Saw your video. Very inventive. I didn’t know you were such a good actor.”

  “Uh-huh. I act. How’s Grandpa?” I asked.

  “He has an ulcer from taking too much ibuprofen because he gave himself a hernia, which apparently hurts.”

  “Oh good.” I nodded. “That doesn’t sound life threatening. He’s not going to die.”

  “No. He’s going to have minor surgery when I’m out of school this summer. The doctor asked if he wore an athletic supporter when he played tennis. Grandpa said no because he likes his boys to be free.”

  I laughed.

  There was silence.

  “Andrew?” I asked.

  Andrew exhaled. “Aleah demanded I call you,” he said.

  I looked at Abby. She was engrossed in cell biology.

  “Why?” I whispered.

  “She’d like to speak with you. She has something important to discuss. That’s all, Felton. I’m angry because you won’t go to the therapists I sent you and I’m angry at you for thinking beer is funny…”

  “I never said beer is…”

  “But I told Aleah I’d call you anyway, even though you probably wouldn’t answer.”

  “I answered.”

  “Good work.”

  Andrew hung up.

  My heart beat weird. No, Aleah. Not again. Won’t do it.

  I went to the pop machine and filled my blue Powerade, then came back to the table. A couple older ladies standing outside the seating area stared at Abby and me and whispered. I heard one say, “Cute couple.”

  Then a thought struck me. Are you and Abby really a couple? Like boyfriend and girlfriend? Just the mention of Aleah could send my heart into a weird rhythm—but Abby?

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Please, Felton.”

  “Abby, are we boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  Abby paused. “Everybody thinks we are,” she said.

  “So…?”

  “Do you want to be?” Abby asked. “Like a romantic couple?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know…Do you?”

  “Do you?” she asked back.

  “Um…I kind of think of you as my hot sister, except when we drink.”

  Abby blinked. She nodded. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Felton.” Abby’s face began heating up. “Sit down.”

  I sat back down.

  “You can’t tell anyone. You swear?” she said.

  “I swear.”

  “Listen. I don’t want to have sex.”

  “Yeah, I actually got that.”

  “Also, I don’t want to kiss…people.”

  “Okay?”

  “I don’t understand why people would think having a tongue stuck in their mouth is fun, and I don’t have any idea why they’d want your thing stuck in their vajayjay.”

  “My thing?”

  “Any thing.”

  “That’s…that’s cool?” I said.

  Abby started talking fast. “Except it’s totally abnormal. You don’t think I’ve googled this? Like I have no interest in sex when I’m eighteen years old? And these websites say I have hormone problems or I’m a lesbian or I’m, like, some kind of child abuse victim and I don’t think I am, except maybe the hormone thing, but I don’t exhibit any other symptom of that and I really, really, really want to be normal, but I’m not, so I don’t really want a boyfriend, but I want you to…to be around with me…to stay together like a team because…”

  Abby kept talking faster and faster, and I got it because I spin out so much sometimes. It’s not easy to watch someone spin out. I decided to help.

  “Stop,” I said.

  “Why? You don’t want the team?” Abby swallowed.

  “Will you go to prom with me?” I asked.

  Abby shook her head. She stared. “Really?” she said.

  “Tuxedos and crap,” I said. “For real.”

  “I’m telling you that…”

  “We aren’t going to do it. We’re not together like that. I won’t even kiss your hand.”

  “I’m really like Barbie,” Abby whispered. “Plastic.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “You don’t have a plastic convertible or a beach house. Your knees bend.”

  “I’m Barbie,” Abby said.

  “Then I’ll be ‘Prom Date’ Ken.”

  Abby stared at me. “Oh my God,” she said. “I really like you.”

  We stared at each other more. Abby’s eyes were wet.

  And then my phone buzzed in my pocket, which made me leap out of my chair.

  “Chill, Felton. Why are you so jumpy?”

  “Gus,” I said.

  One of our chickens had just gotten huge.

  Chapter 45

  The Borders of Bluffton Don’t Contain This Guy

  When Abby drove me home, she said, “I think people were staring at us at Walmart. Am I totally paranoid?”

  “They were staring. Old ladies.”

  She nodded.

  When Abby dropped me off at my house, she said, “Please don’t tell anyone what I told you.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thanks, Felton. Call me after you talk to Gus.”

  When I’d answered the phone from Walmart, Gus had shouted, “We’re going viral, man!” Then he’d asked me to call him back in a half hour. He had to get off the phone because he was clicking at his computer and sort of hyperventilating.

  I went inside the house. Jerri wasn’t there. I made myself dinner (stuffed bread in my mouth and then a whole package of Buddig ham), went downstairs, and called Gus back.

  When he answered, he said, “Okay. Okay. Really, you’re going viral.”

  “No. I’m here. I’m not viral,” I said.

  “Yeah, but somebody on YouTube figured out that you’re the Polish Fist,” Gus said.

  “Everybody knows that’s me. We weren’t trying to hide it or anything.”

  “Not Bluffton, man. It can’t go viral in Bluffton, right? If I’m tracking it correctly, an ESPN reporter is the one.”

  The word ESPN sent a shock up my spine. “The one who what?”

  “The one who sent it out to like 200,000 Twitter followers, and a bunch of them retweeted that crap to a
shit ton of other Twitter freaks. It’s…man…it’s everywhere! Just this afternoon and tonight! Everywhere, Felton. Because of you, do you get it? Jesus. Who have you become?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Felton Reinstein sells tickets! This is crazy!”

  “Yeah. Can you take the video down?” I asked. “I don’t want it blasting off all over.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if I did take it down,” Gus said. “It’s been copied and reposted about thirty times today. People are titling it ‘Reinstein Dickinski.’ This is seriously amazing. I’ve never been part of…”

  “But, Jesus, it’s an inside joke about Karpinski’s dad! Why do they care?”

  “No. It’s legitimately hilarious. Haven’t you watched it?”

  “No. And I’m not going to.”

  “You’re going to see it. It’s everywhere,” Gus said.

  “I’m not interested.”

  “This is not the response I expected, man. You’re a comedy hit. That’s what you used to want. Remember? Remember when you tried stand-up in seventh grade?”

  Picture me in a cheap blue suit telling jokes while kids boo.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Need to sleep.”

  “Come on, Felton. This is cool.”

  “It’s cool. Okay. Except maybe not for Karpinski.”

  “There are already Dickinski tribute videos going up.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Get ready, Felton. School’s going to be crazy tomorrow.”

  He hung up.

  I shook my head, tried to shake out the news. Tribute videos?

  Yeah, I sort of felt like Karpinski had it coming in school. But I wasn’t from Bluffton High anymore, was I? Bluffton didn’t remotely contain me. People from everywhere knew me, and I was bringing the whole freaking world down on Karpinski?

  Shit. He didn’t deserve that.

  Abby texted: wow. we are everywhere.

  Poor Karpinski.

  Hamlet kills his old friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Cody Frederick and Karpinski.

  Fast Falling

  Chapter 46

  Dickinski Grows and Grows

  I have serious problems and it’s too easy to be me. I’m the worst off and the best. I’m hard luck and the top of the heap.